


The Origin of Love

by pauraque



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Picard
Genre: Backstory, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Queer Gen, San Francisco Bay Area, Turing Fest 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24832525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: Elnor wants to know who Hugh was. Seven is there to tell him.
Relationships: Elnor & Seven of Nine, Hugh | Third of Five & Seven of Nine
Comments: 26
Kudos: 48
Collections: Turing Fest 2020





	The Origin of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venndaai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venndaai/gifts).



Once it was all over, there was a moment where everyone seemed to simultaneously realize that they were exhausted. Now all are sleeping, leaving _La Sirena_ quiet but for the rhythmic thrum of the warp drive—all but Seven, who sits awake and alone in the captain's chair, staring into the star field before her as the ship navigates its course. She is tired; her arms rest heavily on the sides of the seat, and her head feels heavy on her neck. But working through fatigue is nothing new to her.

For a fleeting moment, she fantasizes about regenerating. Tucked securely into an alcove, power creeping through her body and meticulously repairing every microscopic strain and tear. Protected. Connected. She breathes in deeply through her nose and blows it out hard through her mouth, shoving the thought away. Eventually she will sleep, and that will be enough. It will have to be.

She hears the young Romulan's footfalls approaching slowly behind her. She knows it is him because he walks much more stealthily than any of the others, placing each foot down first before transferring his weight onto it, like a cat. If she were not Borg, she would not be able to hear him yet, so she chooses not to react to his presence until he's close enough for any typical human to hear. One of many things she has learned to do in order not to seem different.

"Something wrong?" she asks, turning with a raised eyebrow as though she's just now noticed him.

Elnor shakes his head, gazing at the viewscreen. Seemingly mesmerised by the stars rushing toward them, he reaches out a hand to touch the back of her chair, as though steadying himself.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"My mind is full of troubled thoughts," he says. "I am very happy that Picard lives again. Yet the other man to whom I pledged my blade—Hugh—will not return from death as he did." He pulls his gaze away from the stars to look at her. His dark eyes are grave and innocent.

"No," Seven answers, her jaw tightening. "He won't."

"He had a talisman to contact you. Did you know him well?"

Seven lets out a bitter laugh at the question, so absurdly understated, and so impossible to answer in any way that this one could understand. She hesitates, considering and discarding a dozen ways to put it into words, none of which would convey the whole of the truth. "As well as I know myself," she says finally, her mouth twisting in a grim smile.

"I knew him for only a short time," Elnor admits, his brow knit with earnestness. "I would have wished to know him longer. Will you tell me about him?"

For a moment, Seven finds herself speechless. The boy is so guilelessly sincere, and so _young_. He's no younger than she was when she was severed from the Collective, but someone his age looks like a child to her now. Did people see her that way then—just a lost little girl?

"I can try," she manages at last.

Elnor seems to take this as an official agreement. He gracefully lowers himself and sits down, right on the hard metal floor at her feet, settling his elbows onto his knees. Looks up at her expectantly, as if he is accustomed to older people telling him stories. It should be ridiculous, but somehow instead Seven feels a sense of nervous, self-conscious responsibility. How do you do this? How do you tell the story of who somebody was?

Her eyes drift up over the lights above the viewscreen, searching. Her lips part, and then close again; she shakes her head. She doesn't know where to start. The day they met, perhaps—but of course, they knew each other before the day they met. Elnor won't understand that.

Finally she takes a breath, gives herself an inward push past her uncertainties—past the complexity, for now—and says: "I met Hugh on Earth."

*

She was walking near the ferry building when she saw him. It was a bright, dry summer day and the Embarcadero was crawling with people. Laughing children on scooters, Starfleet cadets on leave, a knot of confused Tellarite tourists pointing this way and that as they argued... Seven carefully gave them a wide berth, nervous of being asked for directions again.

It had been eight months since she had arrived in San Francisco—eight months since _Voyager_ returned to Earth—yet the chaos of it still disturbed her. So many people, all disconnected from one another, all strangers. On _Voyager_ she had known the faces of every member of the crew.

Adapting to life on Earth was not easy. On a starship, everything was orderly and clean and still. Here, there were wild animals roaming freely (she moved to avoid a group of pigeons on the pavement), as well as weather and the planet's natural cycles to contend with. She ducked out of the way of foot traffic to tuck her hair in—the wind blowing off the bay had mussed it again.

It was then, as she squinted in annoyance at the sun glaring off the edges of the ground vehicles that crept up and down the street, that she saw Hugh. She had never met him before, and yet she knew him instantly, the way one looks into a mirror and knows one's own face.

He was by himself, looking up at the schedule posted by a public transit stop. He was dressed casually, like all the other strangers, but his stance was perfectly even and symmetrical, his hands slightly tense and pressed against the fronts of his thighs as he gazed upward.

Then he happened to look down the street as if to see whether the transit was coming or not, and he met Seven's eyes. He knew her too; his eyebrows raised in startled recognition. They could see the implants on each other's faces, but that was not how they knew each other. Rather it was the rush of recollection, the memory of connection, as overwhelming as touching a stone and knowing every second of its billion-year history in the space of a breath. Their minds were one mind, once, and their bodies one body: a harmony of oneness resonating through the galaxy like a chorus of magnificent song. That is how they knew each other.

A broad smile spread across Hugh's face, and he called out to her in the delight of someone who has caught sight of a dear old friend: "Seven of Nine!"

And for the first time in a long time, she laughed. She laughed at the sheer everydayness of it—two tiny creatures, once part of a vast consciousness spanning millions of light-years and trillions of minds, now reduced to shouting at one another across a crowded San Francisco sidewalk, their small voices blown by the wind.

*

Hugh took her to a nearby cafe, and they sat at a table in a secluded corner. For a minute they just stared at each other, neither knowing quite how to begin. _So, how have you been since that time we were drones together?_ Hugh chuckled awkwardly; Seven noticed that when he smiled, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

"I, uh... I saw you mentioned in the news reports when _Voyager_ came back," he said. "You and... there was another with you, I thought? Another former..." Hugh glanced around, seeming unwilling to say the word in front of other people who were politely sipping coffee and minding their own unassimilated business.

"Yes," Seven answered, lowering her voice as well. "Icheb."

"Is he still with you?"

Seven flinched inwardly. "No. It was his goal to join Starfleet upon our return. He has already begun his service."

"Wow. That's... fantastic, actually, that they allowed him in."

"It is fortunate for him," she agreed, wishing she could feel that pleasure, and not gnawing loneliness.

"And you? You chose another path," Hugh prompted. He tilted his head, listening curiously.

"I am... uncertain of my path," she admitted, folding her hands neatly on the table in front of her. "When I was traveling with _Voyager_ , I had the clarity of purpose. When we arrived on Earth, I was told that I was free to do whatever I wished. I have found this freedom a challenging adjustment."

Hugh leaned back in his chair and rubbed the back of his head with a sigh. "Yeah. They did the same thing to me. Just dropped me off here and expected me to make a life somehow. Sometimes the Starfleet researchers call, but..."

"You, too, were deassimilated by Starfleet?"

Just as she asked that question, the server came to their table and set down their drinks, and gave Seven an uncomfortable sidelong look.

"Thanks," Hugh said with a forced smile, and leaned in across the table after the server departed. "You might want to be careful what you say," he told Seven, his voice soft and gentle, revealing a truth he would rather not have had to share. "I've found that many people here, when they learn what I am, have reacted with hostility and suspicion." He took a sip of his drink—chamomile with honey.

Though she had wanted her drink when she ordered it, Seven found that it no longer appealed to her. "Perhaps I have been sheltered from this reality by my own isolation," she admitted, feeling somewhat sheepish in her ignorance.

Hugh nodded. "It's not easy to fit in here. I guess I've tried to... to imitate them. Speak as they do. Move as they do." He placed his elbow on the table and rests his jaw in his hand, as if to demonstrate.

Seven's back stiffened. "I have never attempted to imitate others in that way. When I served aboard _Voyager_ , I was seen as different, but most of the crew came to accept me nonetheless."

"Have they kept in touch with you?"

Though it was an entirely innocent question, it pierced Seven like a knife. "Occasionally," she said, defensive and ashamed to admit to herself how long it had been since any of them actually had. "But they all had people to return to in this quadrant, and most had Starfleet careers to resume. I have neither."

"Tell me about it. I was assimilated as an infant."

"I know," she said. "Species 808." She quieted her own voice, tentatively attempting to be gentle in delivering a painful revelation, as he had to her. "As far as I am aware, all have been assimilated or destroyed."

"I figured," he said in a tone of wistful acceptance, his gaze drifting up to the cafe's exposed wooden rafters. "By the time I was liberated, very few were left. I look enough like a human that most assume I'm one of them."

Seven hesitated, and then leaned closer to him, nearly whispering: "I recall your initial separation, and the disruption caused by your return. Your cube was severed to avoid further damage to the Collective. What occurred afterward?"

Hugh let out a wry puff of breath and shook his head, wrapping his hands around his teacup. "As they say on this planet, it's a long story."

*

It was not long before Seven began spending more time at Hugh's apartment in Noe Valley ( _no-ee_ , as he corrected her pronunciation) than in the one she had been assigned upon _Voyager_ 's return. It seemed that a certain number of housing units near Starfleet Headquarters were maintained for relocation of refugees from "sensitive" regimes, which evidently included the Collective.

"They like to keep an eye on us," Hugh told her as he stood stirring his spaghetti sauce in the kitchenette. The unit was very old and still had primitive cooking equipment alongside the replicator. "They do the same with defectors from any enemy species."

Seven shifted to sit more comfortably on the sofa, carefully placing her elbow on its soft gray armrest. "Are they afraid we will assimilate them?" she asked, allowing an edge of sarcasm into her voice.

Hugh chuckled. "Probably. Do you like oregano?"

"I don't know," she admitted, smiling slightly. She had found there was a perverse pleasure in being able to talk freely about the animosity they faced—even to laugh about it. Then she ventured to attempt a human idiom: "Try me."

*

Hugh had a habit of leaving news holos playing even when he wasn't watching them. The sound of the journalists' voices, quiet and perpetual in the background, was soothing to him. Like Seven, he had little tolerance for silence.

Watching these programs revealed to Seven the reality that the Alpha Quadrant was not quite as idyllic a place as her _Voyager_ crewmates had sometimes made it sound. War and oppression were frequently reported, followed by anarchic disagreements about what should be done to stop them, and complaints of Federation government inaction.

Sometimes she found it difficult to suppress the encroaching thought that there was a simple way to bring all these conflicts to a perfectly harmonious end, if only these species would not resist it.

Yet, at other times, she felt strangely attracted to the polar opposite, fascinated by stories of vigilante groups that took matters into their own hands. The former Maquis on _Voyager_ had considered that their wisest option, once. Perhaps some never truly changed their way of thinking, but realized that to say so in their situation would have been imprudent, unless they had wished their journey to Earth to end in being placed under arrest.

"You watch too much FNN," Hugh said, sitting down beside her. "At least put it on EBS sometimes so you can see the other side."

Instead, Seven told the computer to reduce the volume, and leaned back against Hugh's arm, which he had placed along the back of the sofa behind her. Though only a few months had passed since their meeting on the Embarcadero, she felt comfortable with his companionable touch. She knew he was not attracted to women, but it wasn't only that which relaxed her and released her from the stiff awkwardness that she had always associated with physical affection in the past.

Seven didn't know what it felt like to have a lifelong friend, since she had never known anyone as an individual for longer than four years. But, as she rested her head against Hugh's shoulder and stretched her legs out into the sunlight that slanted down from the windows, she suspected it might feel just like this.

*

Hugh tried to encourage her not to sit at home so much. She found it easier to venture out with him at her side—anything was better than standing alone—but she still often needed a little persuasion. So it was on the day when he convinced her to visit the Castro Street Museum, which had newly re-opened after renovations, and was in walking distance from the apartment which by now she thought of as _theirs_.

He suggested they go in the morning, when it wouldn't be as crowded (he knew she didn't like crowds) but there was still a short line to stand in. Hugh passed the time by pointing out some nearby historical sites—the theater across the street was nearly five centuries old. Impressive that it survived the earthquake of 2082, wasn't it? Seven nodded. She was still not the best at small talk, but when Hugh did it, she didn't mind it as much.

As they patiently waited their turn, Seven felt very aware of herself and her clothing; her jeans felt rough against her legs each time they moved forward, and though she had to admit her short-sleeved shirt was pleasantly cool in the hot weather, its inefficient looseness made her want to cross her arms tightly. She had accepted that her dermaplastic garment had made her stand out too much and drew unwanted stares, but she missed the secure snugness of it.

"Two, please," Hugh said, and in a moment the Bolian at the door confirmed there was room and waved them in. Catching a glimpse of their faces, the man looked askance at them, eyes narrowed skeptically; they swiftly went inside.

Seven's ocular implant adjusted to the dimmer, limited-spectrum indoor light. She hesitated for a moment, intimidated by the disorderly array of people moving this way and that through the lobby, but Hugh held out a friendly hand, and she gladly took it. He was better than she was at navigating unpredictable behavior.

 _The Fight for Sexual Diversity_ , announced the sign above the entryway to the main exhibit hall. It was a grand, circular hall, with a panoply of multicolored banners hanging across the high ceiling like the long tails of tropical birds in flight. Seven craned her neck to better analyze them, not certain at first where one ended and another began.

There were historical displays along the walls, starting near the door and progressing chronologically around the hall. The order of it pleased her. Seven and Hugh stood before the first display, their fingers intertwined, and read that there was a time on Earth when diversity was not valued, and deviation from arbitrary standards was punished. They were both aware of this, of course. Such information on Earth's history was incorporated into the Collective's store of knowledge when humans who knew of it were assimilated, and their distinctiveness added to the Collective's own. To Seven, it felt like the misty recollection of a long-ago school lecture—one she had never attended.

The two former drones moved on to the following displays, making room for other museum visitors to begin sating their curiosity. Each display showed antique video recordings ranging from the 20th century to the middle of the 21st, depicting protest marches against oppression and celebrations of victories against it, and allowing leaders of the time to speak in their own words.

Seven found herself squinting at the images—centuries old, flat, and low in resolution. Her ocular implant kept trying to process and re-process them, to bring them into a focus that was not technically possible. Nonetheless, it was clear to her that these grainy figures from long ago were real people with real lives and hopes, who had joined together in common striving despite their individuality. The understanding of this felt like a very serious and impressive thing indeed, and made her human heart beat faster.

And when she watched two women in their quaint, antiquated, 21st-century clothing embrace one another and kiss to seal their marriage, she realized (with retrospective embarrassment at the suddenly thunderous obviousness of it) why all her attempts at romance aboard _Voyager_ had failed.

Hugh's hand slipped out of hers; she turned to see him wandering into the middle of the hall, his eyes glimmering with inspiration as he gazed up at the vibrant kaleidoscope of banners that they now both recognized as battle flags.

"We need something like this for us," he said.

"This _was_ for us," Seven replied as she stepped nearer to stand by his side.

With a slightly surprised quirk of the eyebrow that turned to a knowing smile of shared comprehension, he nodded and placed his hand on her lower back, giving her a sense of stable tranquility.

"Yeah," he said, "but I meant..." He trailed off and raised his other hand to brush his fingers against the Borg implant in his cheek, and then Seven understood.

*

The first time they saw the Artifact was on a news holo in the middle of an ordinary day. It was one of those overcast October afternoons when the air was warm and the clouds filtered in an uneasy, eerie light. The people here called it "earthquake weather".

_...confirming persistent rumors that a Borg vessel has been captured by the Romulans. The vessel is currently located deep within Romulan space, and is described as having suffered a catastrophic systems failure and is claimed to pose no threat to surrounding star systems. This afternoon President Bacco is expected to formally announce a long-suspected yet unprecedented joint venture between Federation and Romulan scientists, working in tandem to study this common enemy, in hopes of eventually gaining the ability to more effectively defend against and perhaps even neutralize..._

Seven stood paralyzed in the middle of the living room, staring wide-eyed at the image of the cube, holding a suddenly-forgotten cup of yogurt and a spoon.

" _What_ did she say?" Hugh called faintly from the other room. He came in pulling a sweater over his head. "What are you watching?" he asked, as if it might turn out to be nothing more than a work of entertaining fiction. But, of course, it was not.

*

All that winter, reports trickled in about the Artifact. Not in the major outlets—for them, it was already yesterday's news. But there were other ways to keep up on new developments. Icheb didn't know anything (he was too new to Starfleet and didn't have any favors to call in yet) but Hugh had some contacts.

Nothing they learned about the fate of the former drones was exactly a surprise. But it was one thing to imagine one's own people being harvested and destroyed, and those who escaped hunted down for profit... quite another to know with certainty that it was occurring, more quickly and more efficiently than ever.

The dreary January rain poured down all afternoon. Hugh and Seven lay beside each other on his bed, staring up at the stucco of the ceiling. Seven's ocular implant repeatedly tried and failed to analyze its pattern and seek order in the randomness; she ignored it.

She sensed that Hugh was on the verge of saying something for about a minute and a half before he finally did. She couldn't hear his thoughts, but she could intuit things from the tension of his body and the way that he breathed.

At last he said: "I'm going to try to get there."

"To...?"

"The cube," he said. (People hadn't started calling it the Artifact yet; that was something Hugh came up with later.) "They're having trouble finding people willing to go. They think it's too big a risk. And Starfleet can't say I'm not qualified..."

"You trust them to help?" Seven interrupted sharply. There had begun to be a dense ball of anger in her chest every time she thought about Starfleet.

"Not entirely," he admitted. "But they despise the Romulans. They may want to undermine them on principle alone. And there are good people in Starfleet," he added, "if you know where to look."

"You'd be putting yourself in danger." She meant her words to be accusatory, but somehow instead her voice came out with a slight tremulous note of fear.

"I know. I just can't stay silent anymore," he said.

And a memory of her own words from the day she awakened on _Voyager_ to find herself being deassimilated echoed in her mind, now with new significance: _The silence is unacceptable._

"I understand," she said, and slid her hand into his, her long fingers intertwining with his shorter ones. She would miss the feeling of safety in their apartment, a place where their bodies belonged only to themselves. But she also knew that feeling was an illusion. "I can't go with you," she went on, hoping he wouldn't ask why, because she wasn't sure she would be able to use words to explain it, "but I'll find another way."

He squeezed her hand, and they lay there quietly for a while, listening to the rhythm of the rain.

*

On the bridge of _La Sirena_ , Seven finishes her story. The Romulan boy is still sitting at her feet, his eyes keen and his face contemplative. She shifts in her seat, feeling uncomfortably exposed but not wanting to show it.

"Did that tell you what you wanted to know?"

"I feel that I've learned as much about you as I have about the man who was your friend," Elnor answers.

"Sorry."

He tilts his head, puzzled. "I didn't mean that I was disappointed. Your love for one another was profound. I am happy to know of it."

She glances aside with a scoff, more out of habit than because she actually disagrees. "Love is a painful thing," she says, the words intensely bitter on her tongue.

Elnor nods soberly. "As a child I was taught that love is a kind of pain. It is the pain we feel at our separateness—a wound where we are cut apart from one another. If we did not know separation, we could not know love."

"Well, I never signed up to be separated," Seven says, feeling the grief burning in her chest as she scrapes a nail against the fabric of the captain's chair.

"Nor did I," Elnor remarks. Not at all sharply or cynically, but a simple observation. He rises from the floor as nimbly as a dancer and stands beside her. "Would it be intrusive if I stayed here?"

"No," says Seven, surprised that it's true. "You can sit at ops. Just don't touch anything." At his quizzical look, she gestures: "The left one."

The boy sits, and Seven finds that although she's now been awake even longer, she feels less exhausted, less heavy, as though another pair of hands is helping to lift a burden.

The ship flies, and they watch the stars. Separate, but not alone.


End file.
